


Time After Time

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9504428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: "The trick to getting through life without crying is to avoid becoming emotionally attached."Dark themes. Rated for some language, non-explicit sex, and references to violence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I still remain pretty proud of this particular fic.

The trick to getting through life without crying is to avoid becoming emotionally attached. The trick to not getting emotionally attached is something she hasn't figured out yet. She isn't crying. Not yet. That bit will come later. Right now she has plans, motions, a facade to maintain that she has worked way too hard on to break just yet. 

There is the jet to disembark from, the cab to call, the swift check-in under a name - Gwyneth Cooper after a long-dead friend - and the ride to the fourth floor (high enough to be hard to enter, low enough to be able to scale down just in case). She locks and double-locks and triple-locks the door and sets up a continual scan for intruders the same way most people unpack toiletries. The sweep of the room is second-nature, the obvious places and the not so obvious - scanning for tech like on Star Trek, if she wasn't fucking tired, she would be almost amused. 

After that bit is done she doesn't even bother going to the en suite before shedding her clothes, leaving them strewn wherever they may land, and making for the bathroom. The water is hot, too hot really, but the pain sharpens the senses and dulls the edges and she can process everything in a safe environment (safe! ha! things stopped being safe a long time ago). 

It was supposed to have been an easy one - in and out and on with life - but things started to go wrong and people died. Good people. People with families and sweethearts and people who give a shit if they get home. People who aren't going home because she fucked up. She wants to cry, wants to break down and sob her frustration out, the saltwater mixing with the chlorinated water, but it isn't time yet. 

The locks click twenty minutes into her shower. She tenses at first, but relaxes when the intruder types in the access code. He's late, but what else is new? She stays facing the wall, listening to his telltale sounds - the thump of his jacket, the clink of his belt, the twin thuds of his boots, his bare feet padding over, the creak of the shower curtain.

He isn't fully wet yet before his hands slide around her, pulling her backwards to rest fully against his body. Neither of them say anything, letting the pounding water cut through the silence. His questing fingers find the new cut on her thigh - it's barely sixteen hours old, and his movements are suddenly frantic, one hand plunging between her legs and the other squeezing her breast. She leans her head back against his shoulder and lets him.

She's right there, right bloody there, when he spins her towards him, kissing her desperately, bruisingly, and she responds emphatically. And then he set his hand on her waist and she grabs his shoulders and he lifts her against the wall and she wraps her legs around him and he is lining up and plunging home and everything is hard and fast and now and please and god and fuck. She bites down on his shoulder - hard - when she comes and he reciprocates almost ferociously.

Soaping up and rinsing off is almost awkward but isn't because he keeps stopping to kiss her and she wants to say something to break the silence, but there isn't anything to say, not really and so she scrubs his back and says nothing at all. 

Afterwards they don't bother with clothes, padding together over to the bed and she thinks to reach for the remote, but he beats her to it, suddenly lifting her up and laying her down. He worships her body, fucking worships it, no centimeter is left untouched, untasted, unknown. Holding it together is harder then it has been and she wants to let go, wants to desperately, but she can't and she doesn't, not while he is kissing her ankles or smoothing his hands down her stomach or licking her center or nuzzling her breasts. 

It isn't until she is a writhing mess and he is hovered, waiting for her to be ready, really ready, that she finally allows herself to look at him - her brown eyes meeting his blue ones and then she does cry, cries while he gently kisses her lips, sobs while he slides home, weeps while they move together, whimpers when she shatters around him. 

It is later, much later, when she is finally able to pull it together again. He is curled around her, her head nestled on his chest, her hand in his, their legs entwined. There is no one who would believe her if she mentioned this side to him, the tender, loving man who kisses her brow and tenderly wipes away the last of her tears, but she wouldn't tell anyone anyway (there isn't anyone left to tell and besides, she likes to keep this version of him to herself). 

The words come then, pouring out of her in waves as cleansing and painful as the tears had been. He is quiet, listening without judging, hearing without condemning and she loves him in that moment like she isn't capable of at any other. He asks her the question, the same one he asks her every time. And she considers it, she really does - it's tantalizing, oh so very tantalizing, but she knows it isn't time. Not yet. But soon. (He can't give it up either and she knows that too.)

They have the night and he holds her and loves her and later she takes control and even later he does and it is a give and take that she can hardly believe she spends so many weeks and months living without. They sleep and wake with the regularity of people who do what they do and the morning's shower gets delayed a bit, but it is still early when they are both dressed and ready. He leaves first because he has to, but she holds him just that little bit tighter and kisses him that little bit messier and he smiles before he disappears out the door.

"Do you want out?"

"Next time."

Because there will always be a next time. She'll make sure of it.


End file.
